


Touch of Witchcraft

by shenhai



Series: Good Omens: Deleted Scenes [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1967 Bar Scene, Canon Compliant, Gap Filler, One Shot, Other, Shadwell POV, Young Shadwell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenhai/pseuds/shenhai
Summary: A young Lance-Corporal Shadwell is sent on a dangerous mission to a Soho jazz house.~~Beta byamdg2846~~





	Touch of Witchcraft

Witchfinder Lance-Corporal Shadwell ground the butt of his cigarette into the pavement with his toe. So this was the place, then? _The Dirty Donkey_. He’d been around Soho before of course (plenty of real witches mixed in among the hippies and the rabble), but had never stepped foot into this particular establishment. It oozed the sort of seedy faux-luxury that Shadwell had always admired but never dared to imitate. Not many witches dared to imitate it either, which is why he had never given the place much thought before. But Hopkins had given him his orders, and Shadwell was damned if he wasn’t going to follow them to the letter. He was, after all, nothing if not loyal to the Witchfinder Army.

He pushed open the door and looked around. It was a low, smoky room, filled with red lamps and swarthy music. The barkeep was polishing a glass, eyeing him suspiciously. Shadwell made his way over.

“What’ll it be then?” asked the barkeep, but Shadwell was not there for a drink.

“I wonder if ye could tell me where I might find a certain –” he paused for effect – “gentleman,” he finished, giving the bartender a pointed look.

Recognition passed over the man’s face, and he nodded towards a doorway veiled in blue velvet, carefully avoiding eye contact with the young Lance-Corporal. Shadwell thanked him, but he simply went back to polishing glasses without so much as a grunt of acknowledgement. So. It was like that, then.

Shadwell took a moment to slick his hair into place before moving towards the curtain. Clearly this Crowley fellow was a man to be reckoned with – if he was a man at all. Hopkins had told him this was a reconnaissance mission, and one could never be too careful when battling the forces of witchery. Suspect everyone, trust no one… at least until you’ve counted their nipples. Aye, witches were a slippery lot. Shadwell would need to keep his wits about him.

He wound his way among the grooving patrons, passing through the crowd with an unhurried but singular purpose. The music and the thick blue velvet muffled any sound in the room beyond, so Shadwell quietly slipped inside, barely disturbing the curtain. Three people were seated around a small wooden table: two men and a woman, deep in quiet, conspiratorial conversation. The man with his back to the doorway was thin and dressed all in black. He was addressing his larger companion, who looked the sort of nasty blighter any self-preserving man would cross the street to avoid.

“…muscles, you’ll be hauling on the ropes,” the thin man was saying. There was no mistaking now that he was in the right place. Shadwell hid a self-satisfied grin and took the last cigarette out of his pack as the large man replied.

“And she’ll be going down on the ropes, then,” he said, but the slim man had noticed Shadwell’s presence and stopped the conversation. He turned to look at him as Shadwell binned the empty pack, and Shadwell knew that this must be the infamous Anthony J. Crowley. Hopkins had been very specific about him. _Slick fellow, dark suit, darker glasses_ , he had said. Well. This man fit the bill.

“Who are you?” Crowley asked him, and Shadwell knew how to answer.

“I understand you need a locksmith,” he said mildly, tucking the fag behind his ear. Best not come on too strong all at once, fellow might get spooked. Shadwell couldn’t afford anything going wrong here. The entire WA was counting on him, even if it was just Hopkins and Siftings at the moment. If this operation went well, who knew? They could get scores more recruits. He just had to play his cards right.

“I was expecting Mr. Narco,” Crowley remarked with mild surprise. Ah, perfect. So Crowley didn’t know. It’s always a good idea to come into a business meeting knowing something nobody else does, and with this piece of good luck on his side, Shadwell’s confidence locked into place like a bullet into the chamber of a gun.

“Well,” he said, sauntering slowly around to the far side of the table, “Mr. Narco’s passed on to his reward.”

This was, technically speaking, quite true. Narco _had_ passed on to his reward, which so happened to be a quiet little village in Oxfordshire, where he was, by all accounts, happily selling wind chimes to tourists and passersby, having left entirely behind him his previous (and rather short-lived) life of crime.

“I’ve taken over the business,” continued Shadwell. “He was my cellmate. He taught me everything he knew.”

Again, this was all perfectly true. Shadwell _had_ been cellies with Narco, for a stint of about four days, and Narco _had_ taught him everything he knew, which, if Shadwell was being perfectly honest, consisted of very little about actual lock picking but absolute boatloads about tropical fish.

“My name’s Shadwell,” Shadwell finished. Short and sweet, that was the ticket. His enigmatic mark seemed to agree.

“Please,” Crowley invited coolly, “sit down, Mr. Shadwell.”

“Lance-Corporal Shadwell, if you don’t mind,” he corrected, a wee bit testily. He was wearing his pins and stripes, after all. He knew that Witchfinders weren’t often given the respect they were due these days, but he always had and always would insist upon his proper title. An Army man must have his pride.

The woman, pretty in pink with her long legs crossed in front of her, interrupted his and Crowley’s silent battle of wills.

“So what’s so valuable that they’re going to leave it in a church at night?” she asked.

 _Aha!_ thought Shadwell. Here was an opportunity! He knew his mission: find out what Crowley was planning, report it to their patron (Hopkins had scrawled a telephone number on a spare scrap of paper for this purpose), and of course, discover and eradicate any witches, witch-like activity, or witch-caused happenings in the area. Well, robbing a church certainly seemed like something a witch would do. He’d have to choose his words carefully. If Crowley _was_ a witch, it was no good letting him know he was onto him.

“We’ll go over the details of what you’re obtaining for me when we get there,” Crowley replied, and reached into his jacket. He pulled out a stack of crisp £20 notes, which momentarily distracted Shadwell from his otherwise iron purpose. “You will all be very well-compensated,” he continued, and began counting out the notes into three stacks on the little table.

At the sight of the Queen, her regal visage proudly emblazoned on the notes, Shadwell suddenly remembered himself, and more importantly, remembered his duty. He raised a hand, determined more than ever to do the WA proud. Crowley stopped.

“You have a question, Lance-Corporal Shadwell,” he observed. Shadwell’s moment of truth had come.

“Stealing from a church,” he said, keeping his tone even and his gaze unbroken. “There’s nae… _witchcraft_ involved here,” he asked, “is there?”

Crowley’s reaction, whatever it was going to be, was vital to determining his next course of action. Would he bluff? Cower? Attack? Or was he truly innocent of that most vile of crimes? Whatever the case, Shadwell was ready. He’d spent his whole life searching for witches, and was prepared for every possibility. If there was a witch here, Shadwell was going to be its doom. He steeled his nerves, ready to strike at a moment’s notice, at the first sign of guilt…

“No,” said Crowley. “Completely witch-free robbery,” and he went back to counting out the money.

“Pity,” said Shadwell, but he was no fool. Witches were wily creatures, not to be trusted. They were known, on occasion, to lie. Not that witches usually carried around three hundred-odd pounds in their jacket pockets, but he must remain vigilant, investigate every possibility.

“Any other questions?” Crowley asked. And Shadwell pounced.

“You are not yourself a witch, warlock, or someone that calls their cat funny names?”

 _That_ should throw him off. Don’t give ‘em a moment to prepare a defense! If Crowley could escape _this_ line of questioning, then Shadwell could be certain of his innocence. But if he stumbled, if he so much as skipped a beat…

“Not a witch, no pets. Anyone else?” Crowley had breezed past Shadwell’s clever trap as if it hadn’t even existed. Well that settled it then. No true witch could have weaseled their way out of that one. Shadwell watched as Crowley placed bill after bill onto the table. There was no harm in doing the job, he thought, if there were no witches involved. And this Crowley fellow… he really was all right, once you got used to him.

\-----

Shadwell fumbled for the scrap of paper Hopkins had given him. It was somewhat more difficult to find, under the starch-new bills that now sat comfortably in his own jacket pocket. He’d slipped away from the group with a rather advanced bit of subterfuge, if he did say so himself (and he did, later on, to Hopkins and Siftings, as many times as they would listen). Having excused himself for the loo, he had instead snuck off to use the house telephone. Espionage came naturally to him.

Dropping a coin into the slot, he dialed the scratchy number and looked around furtively while it rang. Suddenly it picked up, and a prim Southern voice came over the receiver.

“I’m terribly sorry, but we’re quite closed,” said the voice.

“Closed?” asked Shadwell, confused. “Ah, perhaps I have the wrong number.”

“No matter, dear fellow,” the voice replied cheerily. “Good evening,” it said, and hung up, rather abruptly.

Blinking a bit and dialing the number rather more slowly this time, Shadwell placed his call for the second time. Again the phone rang, and when it picked up, the same voice answered.

“Hello?” The Southerner was clearly distressed at receiving two calls in such rapid succession. But Shadwell was sure he’d dialed the number right this time.

“Pardon me, sir, but are ye perhaps expecting a call from a certain… organization?” He nearly whispered the word, lest he be overheard.

“Organization?” repeated the Southerner. “I don’t see what sort of organization I should– Oh! Oh my, I’d nearly forgotten! Are you, erm, calling from the, ah,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “the _Witchfinder Army_ , then?”

“Aye,” said Shadwell, relieved that he had in fact got through to the right person. “My name is Witchfinder Lance-Corporal Shadwell, sir, at your service.”

“Oh, excellent,” said the Southerner. “That must mean, I hope, that you have news about Crowley?”

“I do,” replied Shadwell, growing increasingly more confused at this patron’s lack of discretion and apparent competence. Did he not know what a threat, what danger Shadwell was under at this very second?

“Oh jolly good! Have you found out what he’s planning? I’ve been so anxious about it for days now; I’ve misshelved three different books!”

Shadwell didn’t know quite how to respond to this, so he simply relayed the information he’d managed to pick up. The Southerner listened intently.

“You’re quite sure of this, Lance-Corporal?”

“Aye, I’m sure,” said Shadwell, a tad defensively. “I may not have been able to count his nipples, but he did say he didnae have any pets, sir, and that’s as fine an indication of his innocence as any.”

“No, not– did you say _nipples_ , Lance-Corp– ah, never mind. No, I meant about the church. You’re absolutely sure he said he was going to rob a _church_?”

“Aye, sir,’ Shadwell replied. “He wouldna tell us what we’re stealing, but he did give us a time and a place, sir. That old church on Ely Place. We’re to rob it at midnight tonight, sir, which gives me less than an hour to get there.”

“What on _E_ _arth_ could he possibly want from a…” The Southerner stopped mid-thought, as if something had just occurred to him. In fact, it had. Something quite terrible had just occurred to him. “Oh, _Crowley_ ,” he gasped, and then rapidly bade Shadwell a panicky good night.

Shadwell stared at the dead receiver in mild shock. Clearly, the Southern pansy wasn’t all right in the head. But no matter, he supposed, as long as the troops were getting paid.

An idea occurred to him just then, and he thought that Hopkins would certainly have no objections to it. Mr. Crowley was clearly not a witch, and the Army was in dire need of steady funding. What was the harm? He may even get a promotion for this. Smiling a bit to himself, Shadwell went outside to smoke his last cigarette and wait for Mr. Crowley to appear.


End file.
